Boys skimming
stones
The sun dips low behind the mountain. We’re in soft shadow
on the riverbank – near the bridge – where it’s deep and tranquil – a little
way from the gurgling. From here the pass winds steep through forest. Scott
sits with his feet in the water and his heart and soul unquestionably fully in
the moment. Intensely at ease. Throwing pebbles into the quiet rippling amber. Cam
hurls with fervour anything he finds – gravel – boulders – tar washed down with
the floods. Murray throws stones clear across the river – countless schoolboy hours
on cricket fields bearing fruit in the unmitigated awe on the faces of his
sons. Then he skims stones and the admiration swells with every light skip of
rock walking on water. I pick up stones too and I throw like a girl. Plop. Murray says nice things about my
throwing anyway. No one is hungry or tired or cold or bored. I’m still and I
know He is God.
Pyjama sunrise
God’s mercies are new every morning because Scott’s clock
doesn’t have a holiday setting and he’s still up at 5:00 but the blonde curls
and the wide blue pools of earnest and eager are irresistible all over again
and I’m dragged happy to the lounge. Cam joins us – woken by sleepy stories
half-read and intermittent dinosaur noises. He’s drowsy in wild loud spaceship
pyjamas. Scott hurtles to hug him. I decide to redeem the ludicrous earliness by
putting on slippers and sweaters – whisper to Murray (still in denial) we’ll be
back – take them to the beach for sunrise. We’re all fighting flu and I forget
the tissues so there’s a lot of sniffing but the cold sand and the dawn are
quite bewilderingly beautiful under shreds of torn grey sky masking the pink of
morning rising in a whisper against the relentless crash of foam on shore. The
mountains roar of glory. It echoes back from endless blue.
Cam
We’re afternoon snoozing. He comes into the room. Furtive
smile amidst freckles. Climbs on the bed. Burrows between us. He’s all serious
business and chuffed and feeling the privilege of this warm space. Says, ‘I
want to talk to you two about a few things…’
Scott
He tells me wide-eyed, ‘Whale spat Jonah OUT!’ [Aggressive spitting actions] Then he
sings – head cocked cherub-like – chubby arms wrapped round his middle – say to the Lord I love you… Then he’s
marching – ‘Come guys! Follow me!’ – arms swinging legs lifting whole face
beaming. Brandishing brave pirate sword – ‘Aaargh!’ He insists on grownup cutlery.
Takes his plate to the sink after meals – ‘Nuff. Thank you lunch Mommy.’ He
still sometimes calls me in the night – hugs tight and rambles sleepy about
baby cows or the beach. Blue skies or drizzle he announces daily, elated, ‘It’s
a lovely day!’
